Gambling for the Governess: A Victorian Romance (The Seven Curses of London Book 9)

by Lana Williams

  ~*~

  Christopher strode into his library and closed the door, frustration quickening his step though his movements were stiff once again. While the marchioness’s visit had been a pleasant surprise and he hoped she called on the children again, he had bigger concerns on his mind.

  Damn Connolly.

  Christopher had relived those moments over and over but couldn’t think of what he should’ve done differently. He didn’t look forward to updating Millstone with the outcome of the meeting. Worst of all was his uncertainty of what to do next. The threat hadn’t ended. In fact, it was most likely worse than before. Connolly wouldn’t appreciate their attempt to trick him.

  A knock sounded at his door before he’d reached his desk and the door opened to reveal Amelia.

  “The children are with one of the maids,” she said, though he hadn’t asked.

  Why was it that when she walked into the room, his tension eased? As if her presence was a balm to his soul.

  She walked closer, her brow creased with concern. “What happened?” Her gaze shifted to his temple, and she lifted her hand to gently touch the tender spot.

  He closed his eyes and sighed, allowing the contact to comfort him. How much should he tell her? As he pondered the question, he realized he wanted to share as much as he could. Somehow, talking to her felt like part of a solution.

  “A friend and I attempted to catch the blackmailer this afternoon, but it didn’t go well. The man brought along the two who attacked me at the racecourse.”

  With a gasp, she took a closer look at his temple before her gaze swept over the rest of him for additional injuries. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. We captured one of the hired thugs but not their boss.” His frustration returned at the admission.

  “We?”

  “Viscount Rutland is assisting me.”

  “Now what?” Her expression as well as her tone held empathy but also the expectation that he would take action to fix the problem. That expectation bolstered his confidence.

  He reached out to run a finger along the softness of her hair and something uncoiled inside him as if a spring had been unwound.

  “We’re sorting out how to proceed. I’m not looking forward to telling Millstone of the outcome.”

  “He’s lucky to have you assisting him or matters would be worse. Will you mention his wife’s visit when you speak with him?”

  He sighed. “No. Though I can’t say I care to be keeping secrets from both of them.”

  “I’m certain your next attempt will end successfully. Knowing you, there will be another one.” Her confidence in him bolstered his spirits.

  “We discovered the blackmailer’s identity, his place of residence, and learned that he more than likely has more than one victim.” Listing what they knew set his thoughts toward a new plan. He’d accomplished more than he realized, but it didn’t feel like enough. Especially considering how this afternoon had gone. “Unfortunately, another lord we think he was targeting killed himself.”

  “Oh dear,” Amelia exclaimed. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “As was I. But that makes it all the more important that we stop him.”

  Amelia shivered. “I can’t say I have a good feeling about this. Do you promise to take better care?” She smoothed the front of his suit coat as if brushing away imaginary lint.

  His reaction to her touch shifted from being soothed to being aroused. The concern in her eyes warmed him. It was nice to know someone cared.

  No, he realized. That was a lie. It was the realization that she cared that mattered. “Yes, I’ll be careful. I have no intention of allowing that man to take anything more from us than he already has. He played a part in Edward and Margaret’s death. I’m certain of it. I won’t stop until he’s been brought to justice.”

  The concern in her eyes only deepened at his vow. “Just don’t forget who needs you here.”

  Heat seeped through him at her words. “Does that include you?” He knew she meant the children and his father, but what of her?

  Those blue eyes widened as a delicate rose tinted her cheeks, but she held his gaze. “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  “I’ve tried but failed to keep my distance from you,” he began, realizing he no longer had any interest in staying away. It was time to face his feelings for Amelia. He wanted her in his life.

  Unable to express his thoughts with words he reached for her instead and drew her into his arms. He kissed her deeply, releasing the pent-up emotion he’d been holding back. His tongue swept inside her mouth, swirling, dancing with hers. The taste of her was intoxicating. He ran his hands along her back, loving the feel of her soft curves against him. When her hands reached around his neck, his passion grew even deeper. Need pooled deep inside him, hardening his body, making him wish they were in his bedroom rather than the library.

  Her response fed his desire as she tangled her fingers in the back of his hair then cradled his face. She held him tight as they kissed, adding a special layer of warmth to their passion.

  His hands moved lower as though of their own accord, squeezing her waist, then her hips, even as he cursed the clothing that separated them.

  “Amelia,” he muttered. Then he trailed kisses along her jaw and down her neck, the delicate flesh making him greedy.

  He’d experienced desire before, but nothing like this. What he felt for Amelia was more in every way. Why allow it to matter that she was a governess and he was her employer? Those were temporary facts easily changed.

  Suddenly she tightened her arms and buried her face in the curve of his neck, trembling in his arms.

  He tightened his embrace. “What is it?”

  She sniffed. “I never expected to feel this much.” She eased back enough to meet his gaze, and he was alarmed to see that her eyes were brimming with tears. “If someone had told me a month ago how much my life would change, I wouldn’t have believed them.” She swallowed hard. “I confess that I’m frightened it’s too good to be true.”

  His chest tightened at her honesty. “I don’t pretend to understand this attraction between us, not when it’s still fresh and new. But we shall cherish it and proceed with caution and care.” He trailed a finger along the edge of her brow to her cheek. “There are others we need to think about as well.”

  “Of course.” She nodded. “Charlotte and Ronald as well as the rest of your family.”

  “My father already admires you, the children adore you. My aunt is coming to hold you in esteem as well—”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Especially since Miss Singh doesn’t care for me in the least.”

  “She’s jealous.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Aunt Eloise mentioned it. Miss Singh hasn’t been able to win over the children and it’s driving her mad, especially when you do it so effortlessly.”

  “That can’t be all there is to it.”

  “How can anyone not adore you?” He smiled. “I only mention the children as we can’t risk them being hurt. Not after all they’ve been through.”

  “I agree.” She bit her lip, making him wonder at her thoughts. But she didn’t share them.

  “I need to resolve the matter of the blackmailer and find out what happened the day Margaret and Edward died. Then we’ll explore what’s between us.” Yet his words sounded hollow to his ears. Why did he feel as if postponing discussing possible plans for the future was evasion rather than practicality?

  ~*~

  Connolly lit one candle in the back of his rooms with shaking hands, hoping the faint light wasn’t visible from the front window. He’d prefer no one knew he was home. Namely, the police or any of McCarthy’s men. He’d dismissed Shaw after they’d escaped the disaster on Telford Street, telling the man to stay out of sight for a time. Johnson was in the clutches of Beaumont. No doubt the man would talk. Fortunately, he knew little of Malcolm’s plans.

  Johnson was the least of his worries.

&nbs
p; Any moment now, someone would discover the money from the ticket sales was no longer in the locked chest stored in McCarthy’s office. The same chest they dragged out to award prizes for the weekly drawing. The chest Malcolm had access to.

  It wouldn’t take them long to discover who had taken what should’ve been inside. He swallowed hard at the thought, fighting the bile in the back of his throat. Yet what else could he have done? He’d needed the money to replace what Lydenhall had failed to pay him in order to pay the jockey to throw the race. That had left him no choice. Blast the earl.

  “Sorry,” he muttered with a glance at the ceiling, remembering his mother’s warnings never to speak ill of the dead. Or perhaps he should look at the floor, considering the vices in which Lyndenhall had indulged.

  At any rate, the dead man was of no use to him.

  He paced the small, dim room as his thoughts swirled. He’d been so certain he’d be able to replace the money with no one the wiser after his meeting with Millstone’s man. Instead, he’d been confronted by Beaumont and fake notes rather than the money he so desperately needed. The few notes he’d collected did no good.

  “Damned lords.” Even the thought of the men who’d ruined his life had Malcolm slamming his hand into his palm.

  He never would’ve guessed the man in the fancy suit was connected to Millstone. Thank goodness he’d already had him followed and knew his identity, his place of residence, and his family. Peterson had discovered that for him. The information gave him the ability to strike where it would hurt the lord the most.

  But how? What did he do to make the man pay for his interference?

  Millstone would pay as well. On the morrow, he’d send a scathing message to the marquess, advising him the price had just doubled. He hadn’t trusted any of his men to retrieve the money and bring it to him. If either one had seen the amount that was supposed to be in the envelope, they’d have lit out and Malcolm never would’ve seen them—or the money—again.

  He pushed aside his fear, telling himself he still had time to fix this. If he had the money before the drawing, there was still a chance to replace what he’d taken before anyone knew. All would be well.

  With a deep breath, he sank into his chair. Yes. All would soon be well. Not only would he have his money, but he’d also make Beaumont and Millstone sorry that they’d crossed Malcolm Connolly.

  Chapter Twenty

  “The ‘spec’ dodge has been annihilated and betting shops have been entered and routed thanks to the police.”

  ~The Seven Curses of London

  Christopher climbed the stairs to his father’s rooms, uncertain why he was paying him a visit. Was it because of the close call? Because of the talk of family with Amelia? Or was it more basic than that? Perhaps simply because the man upstairs was his father. He hadn’t tried hard enough to communicate with him of late.

  He knocked on the door of the lab, not bothering to wait for an answer. No doubt the earl was in the middle of something and wouldn’t hear it anyway.

  Sure enough, his father was seated on a tall stool at the long wooden counter that ran the length of the room, oblivious to Christopher’s presence. The counter held all manner of boxes and vials and books as well as a scale, coils, and notes. The order made sense only to his father. The maids had been forbidden from entering except to clean the floor, though Mrs. Wimbly managed to tidy the counter and shelves when his father was elsewhere.

  His father held an open book with one hand, his finger marking his place as he examined the contents of a small wooden box before him.

  “Good afternoon, Father.”

  His father glanced over his shoulder at Christopher before his attention returned to the box. “Yes. Quite.”

  While he should be used to the lack of a normal greeting, it still bothered him, nearly as much as it had in his youth. He’d received much the same response when he’d sought comfort after his mother’s death. What little he’d received had been awkward and of no comfort at all. He’d learned at an early age not to count on his father for the things other boys his age took for granted when it came to their fathers. He acted normal at times but when involved in a project, his single-minded focus caused all else to fall away.

  As the frustration crossed his mind, Amelia’s voice flowed over him. Your father’s mind works differently than ours. His behavior doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you or isn’t concerned about your welfare.

  Just as her presence today had soothed him, the memory of her words did the same now. His relationship with his father might be far from perfect, but at least he had a father in his life.

  “What are you working on?” Christopher asked as he drew closer to peer over his father’s shoulder. How many times had he asked that same question over the years? In retrospect, his father had always tried to answer. Christopher hadn’t always understood the explanation, but the earl communicated to the best of his ability.

  Could Christopher say the same?

  “I’m attempting to measure the magnetic flux density of this.” His father scowled as he fiddled with a wire in the box. “The challenge is in keeping it consistent.”

  “I’m sure.” Christopher studied the items his father had before him, making little sense of them. He certainly had no advice to offer. As usual, it was as if they spoke two different languages. Though tempted to depart, he hesitated.

  “I will have to try again, changing one variable at a time until I see different results.” His father stretched out his arm to study the pencil marks on his cuff, a sequence of numbers that meant nothing to Christopher, then ran his thumb over them to erase them.

  Christopher bit back the reprimand that he shouldn’t write on his cuff. Especially when Dauber made certain paper was readily available for his use.

  After a moment’s thought, Christopher reached for a sheet of paper and folded it to the size of his cuff, aware of his father watching him. “May I?”

  The earl nodded, clearly puzzled as to his intent.

  He opened the paper and refolded it over the top of his father’s cuff, creating a narrow blank sheet.

  A delighted smile lit his father’s face as he withdrew the small pencil he kept in his waistcoat pocket, licked the tip, and wrote on the paper-covered cuff. Why he wouldn’t prefer to use paper and pencil on a flat surface such as the table, Christopher didn’t know. But he had Amelia to thank for making him look for a different solution.

  He waited for the earl to finish writing down the numbers before broaching another subject. “Father, do you remember Millstone’s issue with the blackmailer?”

  “Of course.”

  Never mind that he could remember that but not to use the paper in front of him or put on proper shoes.

  “I’ve discovered the person behind the blackmail,” Christopher continued, “and that Millstone isn’t his only victim. Unfortunately, I failed to catch him when I had the chance.”

  “Failure doesn’t mean the goal should be forfeited.”

  “Agreed. I’m at a loss as to how to proceed, I suppose.” He needed to catch Connolly but how?

  His father’s hazel eyes studied Christopher, lingering on the bruise near his temple. “Forward progress is often made in fits and starts.” He gestured toward the box he’d been working on. “But continuous attempts bring results. You might be closer to resolving the matter than you think.”

  “I don’t intend to give up.” But his indecision as to how to catch Connolly was wasting valuable time. “Time is running out.”

  “Take the offensive. Strike him where it will be the most effective. Just be certain to keep the odds in your favor.”

  Christopher considered the advice, turning it over in his mind. What would hurt Connolly? His home. The racecourse. The location of the drawing. Christopher needed to make his life as difficult as possible until they caught him, leaving him nowhere to hide.

  A budding feeling of hope came over him. He clapped the earl on the shoulder. “Thank you, Father. I shall k
eep you apprised of my results.” He turned to leave, anxious to meet with Rutland and set the wheels of his plan in motion.

  “Christopher.”

  He looked back at his father, suddenly noting the lines bracketing his eyes and mouth, the slight stoop of his shoulders, and his grey hair. The signs of aging were a reminder of how precious life was.

  “I trust you will take care.” His tone brooked no argument.

  “Of course.”

  “And you’ll advise me if you need my assistance.”

  “Yes.”

  His father gave a single nod. “Very well.” He waved his hand. “Off with you.”

  The farewell echoed from the past, the same words with which he’d dismissed Christopher in his youth, usually when he’d grown weary of his son’s questions.

  For some reason, the words made Christopher smile this time. The phrase might not have sounded affectionate to others, but it was to Christopher. And that was all that mattered.

  ~*~

  Late the next morning, Amelia ventured to the kitchen to retrieve the picnic basket the cook had prepared for the outing to the park. The children had been begging to go again after being inside for several days. Though she’d hesitated because of the threat of the blackmailer, having Charles, the footman along, should provide enough protection.

  “Here it is, Miss Tippin.” Cook smiled as she hefted the basket onto the table and opened the lid. “I’ve put all manner of items in here to tempt you and the children and Charles as well.”

  “You are far too kind, Mrs. Smithson. We appreciate it.”

  The older, stout woman patted Amelia’s arm. “Those two young ones are much happier now that you’ve come into their life.”

  “Thank you for saying that.” Amelia was pleased to think she had a positive effect on them. “They are wonderful.”

  “Indeed, they are. But not everyone sees that. The past governesses certainly didn’t.”

  “I can’t imagine how they missed it. Charlotte and Ronald deserve the best.”

  “They have it with you, Miss Tippin,” a voice said behind her.